


Something New

by djsoliloquy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Human AU, M/M, paint me like one of your French girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djsoliloquy/pseuds/djsoliloquy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis and Arthur try a different sort of activity together, for which Arthur expresses shy uncertainty with his usual charm. Not to be outdone, Francis charms him right back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something New

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [halflight007](http://halflight007.livejournal.com/) over at [Hetalia Sunshine](http://hetaliasunshine.livejournal.com/), forever and a half ago.
> 
> Also, [more stuff I do not at all deserve.](http://minuiko.deviantart.com/art/APH-Why-Wouldn-t-I-144793469) Thank you for the lovely art, [minuiko](http://minuiko.livejournal.com)!

 

It’s that late hour of the night, so late it’s early and the early sunrise light is clear and soft through the curtains, and it’s so quiet Arthur can hear the individual brushstrokes. “This is sheer idiocy,” he decides. “Idiocy of the highest order.”

“You may hate it to your heart’s content,  _mon cher,_  as long as you do not move.”

To his credit, Arthur Kirkland does not move. Besides his mouth, obviously. “You’ve finally lost it, that’s what this is. Or you’re drunk. And I listened to you, that’s the worst of it.”

The canvas obscures his face but Arthur catches a bit of a grin when Francis leans around to look at. 

At, well. 

At  _Arthur_ , but damn it all—

“You moved,” Francis says sweetly, sitting back on the stool and disappearing behind the painting. 

Arthur almost can’t keep himself from glaring. “I most certainly have not.”

“Your face had a less ugly expression on it. You are also blushing now. Ah, well, I suppose it can’t be helped.”

Arthur does not reply at once. Instead, he concentrates on keeping his breathing level and even. It’s rather difficult not to concentrate on just about everything, actually. He’s aware, for instance, of how he’s maybe a little softer around the middle than Francis is and it’s impossible to hide it with no blankets to crawl under, and he probably should have sucked it in before Francis started painting but if he does it now he’ll be caught. He can feel the slightest of breezes on every inch of himself whenever someone in Portugal opens a window or someone in Switzerland sneezes, and his toes are cold and he has to think of dying orphans and Alfred’s jokes to stave off an erection when Francis glances up and his attention lingers a moment longer than necessity demands. 

He can tell from the hooded look and self-satisfied smirk that the frog is using the opportunity to take his damn time admiring, and he’s not even faintly trying to hide it.

The worse of it is Francis sees everything. If Arthur so much as looks away seeking reprieve, Francis will know. There’s absolutely nothing to hide behind, not darkness, alcohol, or even clothes, and the clothes are the somewhat important part of that. 

 _Can we stop_  would sound childish and weak. So Arthur snarks.

“It’s for some sort of bet, isn’t it,” he says. It all comes out in monotone as he keeps his lips still as possible. “This is just a sophisticated excuse to put it on the internet. Admit it, you pervert.”

“Not at all.” Francis looks up and back to the canvas again. One of the professional glances this time, a quick double-check at Arthur’s calves. His voice is calm and somewhat distant as he concentrates on the task. “This is to be mine and mine alone, and yours if you wish. I don’t want anyone else to see you like this. And… you have moved, again,” Francis mutters the next time his eyes flash around the canvas. “Close your eyes some so you look less like a sheep.”

“Bastard.”

“Yes, just like that, but without glaring. If you can.” Francis sighs, but he is smiling. “I won’t hold it against you if you are incapable, though I wish you would learn to control that other problem you have. I can see the blush all the way down your—”

“Do shut up.” Arthur slowly unclenches his jaw and tries to relax. Not that he likes any of this — he  _loathes_ every facet of it, but if he’s going to do it, he will do it  _properly_. “Have it your way. You won’t admit it’s for a laugh, but then what is it? What’s come over you?”

“I think the question should be why it’s taken me this long to get you to pose for me.”

Arthur ignores that. “What could possibly incite a sound being into wanting a nude portrait of me?” he says to the room, but mostly just to himself. What he's not asking is,  _what could possibly incite me to pose for it?_  “Of all people, when you could have anyone? This is absurd.”

It’s obvious when the brushstrokes stop. The room falls absolutely silent. 

Francis rests his palette hand on his leg and leans over. Arthur can’t look away to avoid Francis’s face. “This really does bother you, doesn’t it,” Francis says slowly. 

Arthur sputters. “Well of course it does! You’re going to use it against me somehow, I know you are!”

“That was not exactly what I meant.” Carefully, Francis sets the palette and brush on a table behind him and lowers himself from the stool. “Don’t move,” he says as he approaches Arthur.

Arthur snaps his eyes forward again, watching the blurred peripheral version of Francis cross the room. “You can move your eyes if you want,” says Francis, amused. Arthur does, throwing in a glare for good measure. 

Francis sighs and kneels in front of him so they are almost eye-to-eye. He balances on his toes, elbows perched on his thighs and smiling in a knowing way. He tied his hair back and rolled his sleeves midway up his arms, and this close Arthur can see the sweat beaded lightly on his forehead. “Now why wouldn’t I want to paint you?” Francis asks.

“Idiot,” Arthur sneers. “Don’t ask me inane questions.”

“In what way was it inane?”

He glares more. “You know well.”

“Explain it to me,” says Francis, smile widening. 

“Because you… you could be painting anyone.”

“And?”

“And you could be painting anyone!”

“And?”

Arthur stares at him. Still smiling, Francis leans over Arthur, careful not to touch any of the white sheets on which he is reclined. “Don’t move,” Francis says, and reaches with his hand to brush his fingers lightly down Arthur’s cheek.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” Arthur says, eyes widening despite himself. 

The fingers ease along the jaw line, curling slightly on the neck as a sort of caress. “You are full of it,  _mon lapin,_ ” says Francis. “And I cannot for the life of me understand your reasoning.”

“Of course you can,” Arthur spits out.

“Yes, and I think you are full of it. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not!”

“Or embarrassed about.”

“I’m not! God damn it!”

“At least not to me. We already know all the worst things about each other, so enough with this show of yours. I am trying everything I can to put you at ease,” he murmurs.

The hairs on Arthur’s arms and legs are standing up. “Put me at ease, that’s what you’ve been trying to do? Oh, well done.”

Francis shakes his head. “You can be lovely, Arthur, but how can I convince  _you_ of it, do you think?”

“I — you — what?” Arthur gapes, and the heat from his face spreads to the tips of his ears. “Have you gone mad?”

“Don’t move. For the love of Heaven, I cannot be expected to restrain myself under these conditions,” Francis says without embarrassment, before very softly and carefully kissing Arthur on the mouth.

Arthur doesn’t move. In fact, he freezes; his eyes affix themselves open and forward, staring through Francis at what would be the easel. His eyelids lower when Francis licks his bottom lip, and their mouths finally open to each other.

Francis’ hand eases down Arthur’s neck and arm, along his waist to his hip. His thumb pad strokes gently over the bone. None of it feels like a caress now to Arthur, at least not in the sense that it’s meant to arouse. It is attentive, firm, and knowing. It feels like he’s being sculpted. Like Francis is trying to learn him by heart, through touch.

“Relax. You are doing beautifully.” Francis pulls away but continues to explore Arthur’s face with gentle touches of his lips. “Now may I paint your portrait, Arthur Kirkland?”

Arthur opens his eyes so he can better roll them. And still the blushing. The god damn bloody  _blushing_.

“Fine,” he mumbles.

“ _Merci bien_.” Francis kisses Arthur’s forehead before realigning his face into the correct position. “It takes an incredible amount of passion and childish resolve to hate someone as long as we have each other, and I would still not have you any other way. Well.” Francis laughs as he seats himself behind the easel. “Maybe if you came in a less annoying edition.”

“I’d prefer you a little less French, if that helps,” Arthur says, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards. Francis chuckles and they remain in comfortable silence until finally Francis lays aside his brush and announces the painting completed. 

Immediately Arthur sits up and wraps the sheet around his middle. “Took long enough. I'm going home.”

“You don’t want to see it?”

Arthur groans and hobbles to Francis’ side. “Very well, let’s have a look at the damned thing—”

He stares at the canvas, his brain unsure for the longest time what to makes of it. He glances at Francis, who is smiling serenely — no, he’s _smirking_. “What the hell is that,” Arthur says.

“Abstract.”

“It’s the scribblings of an infant! With finger-paints! Were you even _looking_ at the canvas? Or the palette, for that matter? _Was_ there a palette?”

“Of course there was,” says Francis, affronted. “Every mark was carefully thought out.”

Arthur blinks. “I’m going to kill you. It’s not possible to take four hours to throw that mess together. This was all just an excuse to... to look at me in the nude, wasn’t it?”

“How dare you even suggest that it wasn’t,” Francis says. “But I will have you know I also happened to put a lot of work into it.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says acidly. He shakes his head at the painting, when suddenly something in it catches his eyes. In the corner, peeking out from behind a thick streak of carmine, is a careful bit of cream paint. A careful bit of cream that looks suspiciously like a corner of the sheet Arthur was positioned on.

Arthur narrows his eyes. “What’s that there? Francis, did you just paint over the — Oi!” He doubles over as Francis puts an arm around him and pulls him out of the room. “What’s the idea?” 

“I’ll make you dinner,” says Francis. “Or would it be breakfast at this hour? Either way it is the least I can do! You must be starved for something edible.”

“Fuck off! Have you ever heard of soap?” He wiggles out of the headlock but Francis loops their arms together. “Francis, did you honestly make a portrait and paint over it?”

Francis smiles a little. “ _Chéri_ , will you let me keep the painting?”

“Please yourself. But what…?”

“Would you have let me keep a detailed nude portrait of you?”

“Probably not,” Arthur admits.

“I wanted to keep it anyway,” Francis explains.

Ah. “Well, I wanted to see it!”

“You did not even want to  _sit_ for it. Although you were beautiful. Are,” Francis assures him before the hackles can rise up again. “I suppose you’ll just have to sit for me again, won’t you? Now would you prefer dinner and bed, or bed and dinner?”

Arthur turns his nose up and grasps the sheet to keep it from slipping off his waist. “Neither. And I’m never doing that again.”

“Dinner in bed it is,” Francis says, kissing Arthur’s cheek and pulling them into the bedroom.


End file.
